She can be a sensitive soul, my girl.
It's rare that my husband and I argue. It's even more unusual for us to bicker in front of Finje. If she does pick up on friction she'll stand between us, arms splayed, demanding that we "make friends".
More often than not that diffuses the situation pretty effectively. Even the slightest whiff of pathos whilst watching a DVD and she sticks her fingers in her ears! This, in the World of Finje, protecting her from potential anguish.
At the kindergarten spring festival they had erected a huge trampoline. On it a sign restricting its usage to a maximum of eight kids. An accident waiting to happen! Sure enough, almost immediately, one of the smaller children fell on his back and couldn't get back on his feet, bounced by the momentum of the other seven who were not about to stop any time soon. He looked like an upturned turtle. Stifling a laugh, I observed with interest to see how the situation would progress.
To my delight, Finje was attempting to help turtle-boy to his feet. Being ricocheted around like a pinball herself and simultaneously demanding that her trampolining colleagues "STOP JUMPING!" she was magnificent. Until she realised no one was obeying her command. Then she began to cry.
Like I said, sensitive.
This evening, as we ate supper, the radio was playing quietly in the background. I only left the table for a moment and on my return Finje was quietly sobbing into her pudding. What on earth could have happened in the last 30 seconds?
"Somebody is killing the woman! Her brother or her papa or someone. He's killing her with his guitar and his singing!"
"Listen!" she sniffed, dripping snot on her strawberries.
On the radio The Fugees were demolishing that wonderful Roberta Flack classic, "Killing me Softly".
I struggled not to giggle, but sobered as it occurred to me that the time had come to start editing music on the radio. As Tony Blackburn doesn't reside in Germany, songs don't often get banned here so I would have to do my own censoring before Finje starts singing "Slap my Bitch Up" during kindergarten morning sing-a-long.
Halting my attempt at an explanation, she had already dried her tears and her nose (on her sleeve).
"Oh, but she can't be dead can she? Otherwise she wouldn't be able to sing."
And with that she finished her strawberries and snot.
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